


Tchotchkes

by coricomile



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Community: picfor1000, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 16:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5792407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trinkets from Bucky's missions across the world filled the shelf, all of them pressed in close together. There was no order to them, other than the nesting doll at the very end, closest to the door that led to the bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tchotchkes

**Author's Note:**

> For the Pic for 1000 words challenge. It was, in fact, a challenge. I had no idea what to do with the picture- which can be found [here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/129701211@N08/20695166781)\- for the longest time. Then this thing fought with me through three different incarnations before finally being happy with this go.

Everything hurt. Bucky rolled his right shoulder, pressing his fingers into the stiff muscle. He'd landed hard on it from a few stories up. It hadn't been dislocated, but the bruise left behind was staggering, already black and purple. He was glad that he hadn't landed on his left side. Healing flesh and bone was always easier than sitting through getting metal hammered back into shape. The bruise would be gone in a day or two, and Clint would get a kick out of poking at it. 

Bucky yawned and stabbed at the call button for the elevator. Some days, he wished they lived on one of the lower floors. Less hassle getting in when wounded, less annoyance when the elevator inevitably gave out again, but Clint refused to give up the apartment he'd fought so hard for. Bucky couldn't blame him. 

Sarah Cullins sat outside the door across from the elevator, folded up around her knees, her head bobbing as she dozed in and out of sleep. She was seventeen, living on her own for the first time, and had an impressive track record for forgetting her keys. Bucky sighed, dropped his duffle bag, and picked through his keys until he found the one for her door. 

"Hey, Buck," Sarah mumbled when he shook her awake.

"I'm gonna duct tape your keys to your hand," Bucky threatened idly. 

"I'd manage to find a way to lose that, too," Sarah said mournfully. Bucky liked her. She reminded him of Clint. A little too prone to misfortune but good at heart. She'd cat-sat for them a few times when Bucky had managed to coerce Clint into a few short trips out of the city. It was getting harder and harder to get him to agree, but Bucky had always been tenacious. 

"Probably," he said, unlocking her door and giving her a hand up. His shoulder twinged and he winced. "Good night."

"Night, Buck," Sarah mumbled, gathering up her backpack and stumbling through the door. "Say hi to Clint for me."

Bucky picked up his duffle bag, checked the hall for any other easily solved problems, and let his shoulders slump in relief when it was clear. The building was full of good people, people Clint cared too much about, but they were all a little hopeless. It was what made Clint like them so much.

The apartment was quiet when he finally got in. Dixie hopped off the counter when Bucky closed the door, bumping her head against his leg and mewing plaintively at him. He bent to rub her head, unable to stop his grin when she licked at his palm. She was another one of Clint's strays, pathetic except for how sweet she was. Bucky had come home one day to find Clint cleaning off a matted ball of fur, mumbling to himself and failing to avoid frightened swipes of her claws. He'd found her behind a dumpster, half starved and missing an eye, and immediately brought her home. Bucky hadn't been able to turn her away. 

He filled her bowl with kibble and eyed the coffee pot warily. Eventually, he made himself turn away from it. If he let himself stay up any longer, the jet lag would make him its bitch. Instead, he opened the front pocket of his duffel and pulled out the little porcelain statue he'd picked up on his way out of Mumbai. He touched the tip of all four delicate hands before placing it on the shelf behind the couch, tucking it between the intricately carved jade ball from Japan and the cheesy snow globe from Australia. 

They'd need a new shelf soon. Maybe one of those cabinets that people put their good plates in. The shelf spanned from one side of the wall to the other, longer than the couch and just a little crooked. Trinkets from Bucky's missions across the world filled it, all of them pressed in close together. There was no order to them, other than the nesting doll at the very end, closest to the door that led to the bedroom. It had been the first gift he'd brought back after Clint had stopped going on missions.

Bucky pulled his shirt over his head and threw it towards the bathroom before easing the bedroom door open. Dixie trotted past him, brushing against his legs before leaping onto the bed and curling up next to Clint's head.

The moonlight spilled in through the window, just bright enough to highlight the profile of Clint's face, the angle of his shoulders. Bucky toed off his shoes and socks, pushed down his dirty jeans, and crawled into bed behind him. The mattress felt amazing after so long away, crappy springs and all. No hotel in the world compared. 

Clint grumbled, rolling over slowly. He smiled and kissed Bucky once before falling back asleep, half of him resting on Bucky's chest. Bucky traced the line of his nose, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that had grown deeper as the years passed. He was seventy-three, decades away from the mouthy, broken man Bucky had met in Avengers Tower, and Bucky loved every bit of him. The years had been happy enough to make those wrinkles. 

Clint had worked his body until he couldn't, pushed past the pain in his wrist and fingers until he'd had a few too many close calls. His retirement from the Avengers had been hard on both of them. Bucky's body was still young. He still had more to give, and that meant leaving Clint behind, worrying about him from half a world away. 

He'd started buying the trinkets for luck. If he had something to give, he had to survive long enough to bring it back. If he had something to give, Clint had to be there to receive it. So he'd keep buying them with held breath, keep putting them on the shelf with silent prayers until he couldn't anymore. It was all he could do.


End file.
